I had to drive to Danville yesterday to pick up a couple of tons of oats, both for animal feed and for strewing across the ground to try and hold the fragile dusting of topsoil we can still claim as our own. Once the oats were loaded in the truck, and I started driving the truck, the effectiveness of the braking system was considerably reduced, and it ain’t all that great to begin with. So I was sticking to the middle lane in the busier part of town thinking most people would elect to merge using the right lane.
I had a bad feeling when I watched a pickup whose manufacture predated my trucks’ by a couple dozen years lurch to the edge of the road fifty yards in front of me. It had pieces hanging off.
He paused for a moment to let me use up all the braking distance I might need before pulling directly in front of me.
I could almost feel the brake fluid squirting out of every loose seal and pinhole in the lines, and even making new ones as I crammed the pedal into the floor.
I was just beginning to believe I was going to push him off the road when he veered back into the right lane. I’d slowed down sufficiently by then that he could swerve back in front of me without bothering to check his mirrors.
At the next stoplight, the driver opened the door of his truck, leaned out, and vomited what looked to be a half gallon or so of purplish liquid onto the asphalt. His passenger appeared completely unfazed by this, tapping his fingers on the door of the truck, probably in time to some country-rap. He continued to vomit copiously through half of the cycle of the green light, and finally shut the door and lurched into motion again.
The driver looked to be in his late fifties, early sixties, smallish build, with the sun withered neck of a tobacco farmer who might moonlight as a test subject for embalming fluid. The passenger was a much younger, much heavier guy, no neck.
I suspect both of them have reproduced.

Advertisements